


"but time & too much don't belong (together like we do)"

by talkwordytome



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Just like so much tenderness, Sick Phryne, Sickfic, Sweetness, Tenderness, all the pining, also pining!, so much pining, soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-22
Updated: 2020-04-22
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:27:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23782351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/talkwordytome/pseuds/talkwordytome
Summary: In which there aren't nearly enough Phryne/Jack sickfics to satisfy the author so she took it upon herself to write a second one.
Relationships: Phryne Fisher/Jack Robinson
Comments: 28
Kudos: 132





	"but time & too much don't belong (together like we do)"

**Author's Note:**

> Shout out to cjscullyjanewaygay for being my beta!
> 
> Title comes from the song "I Belong to You" by Brandi Carlile!

It was a Wednesday, mid-morning, and someone was knocking frantically on Phryne Fisher’s front door.

Mr. Butler swung it open with his usual effortless grace to reveal a rumpled and visibly anxious DI Jack Robinson. “Mr. Butler,” he said, stepping inside, “Miss Williams called me at the station and said there was an emergency. What’s going on? Where’s Miss Fisher?”

Mr. Butler opened his mouth to speak, but before he’d said a word, from the top of the stairs they heard Phryne cry out, “Oh, I cannot _stand_ it!”

Dot came storming into view, looking uncharacteristically peevish. “Detective Robinson,” she breathed, relieved, “oh, thank goodness you’re here.”

“Miss Williams,” Jack said, “what’s the emergency? Is it Miss Fisher? Is she hurt?”

“No,” Dot huffed, “she’s fine, she just has a dreadful cold and refuses to simply get into bed like a sensible person would.”

“She really is in quite a state, sir,” Mr. Butler added.

Jack’s brow furrowed. “I’m very sorry to hear that,” he said, “but I’m not entirely sure what that has to do with me.”

“Well, in most other matters she won’t listen to anyone so well as you,” Dot explained, wringing her hands, “and I thought, perhaps, you might try to make her see reason?”

Jack checked his watch. “Well,” he sighed, “I suppose I could—”

“Oh, thank you,” Dot said, all but pushing Jack up the stairs, “you are a _lifesaver_ , Detective Robinson, truly you are.”

Moments later, Jack stood outside Phryne’s bedroom door, unsettled and unsure of what to expect. He’d never seen her ill before. Somehow she’d hardly even been injured while they were working cases together. She was the unflappable Phryne Fisher; she simply didn’t get sick. It was unthinkable.

A loud sneeze interrupted his thoughts. Phryne Fisher did, apparently, get sick on occasion. Perhaps Collins would dance the tango next. Jack opened the door.

Phryne sat at her vanity, applying powder to her bright red nose. “Jack!” she said gayly, noticing him in the mirror. “What brings you here? Aren’t you meant to be working?”

Dot was right; Phryne’s cold really _was_ dreadful. Congestion marred her typically crisp diction, turning her _m’s_ into _b’s_ and her _n’s_ into _d’s_. She was paler even than usual, save for a flush high in her cheeks, and her eyes were wanting for their mischievous sparkle. She was dressed to the nines though, beaded headband and all, and appeared determined to carry on with her day as normal. Jack sighed.

“Miss Williams called me,” he said, “and told me you were ill.”

Phryne rolled her eyes, scoffing. “I most certainly am not,” she said. “I don’t get ill. The very notion is completely ridiculous.”

“You’re sneezing,” Jack said, completely ignoring the proverbial chase Phryne was hoping to bait him into.

“Dust,” Phryne insisted, and aimed another impressive sneeze into her elbow.

Jack snorted. “As if Mr. Butler would ever let so much as a single particle of dust mar the surfaces of this house,” he said. He moved closer to Phryne and palmed her forehead. “You’re feverish.”

“You are standing _awfully_ close, Jack,” Phryne said, winking. “That’s bound to get any lady a bit heated.”

Jack was _almost_ distracted by the flirt in her tone, but instead focused on pressing the pads of his fingers to Phryne’s cheekbones, testing her sinuses. “Does this hurt?” he asked.

“Not in the slightest,” Phryne said, wincing.

Jack rocked back on his heels and put his hands in his pockets. “You should be in bed,” he said.

“Only if you come with me,” Phryne shot back, wiggling her brows. 

“You need to _rest_.”

“I am!” Phryne said. “Look at me, sitting in a chair, resting.”

“You need to be _resting_ in _bed_ ,” Jack said.

“Well, now we’re just going in circles, Jack darling,” Phryne said, then capped her lipstick in a very final _that’s that_ sort of way. “Now, tell me. Any interesting cases? Any particularly gruesome murders that need solving?”

Jack considered her for a long moment. “Has anyone ever told you,” he said, “that you’re an incredibly stubborn woman?”

“In fact, you do,” Phryne said, “nearly every day.” 

She stood up and began to cross the room, but as she passed Jack she abruptly went ashen. She took an uncertain, stumbling step, and only Jack’s hand on her arm kept her from falling. “Easy,” Jack said, quiet and firm, as he led her to the bed. “We don’t need you fainting, now do we?”

“I do _not_ faint,” Phryne said crossly. “Fainting is for women who are fragile and ladylike, and I’ll have you know that I’m neither of those things.”

“Certainly not,” Jack said smoothly. “Do you need help undressing, or are you able to do it on your own?”

“Jack, you are a scoundrel,” Phryne said, delighted, kicking off her heels. “Tell me, what shall we do once I’m out of my clothes? I’m all aflutter.”

“We’ll get you dressed in warm pyjamas,” Jack said seriously, “and cover you with blankets so you don’t get chilled.”

“You’re no fun at all,” Phryne said, pouting. “Has anyone ever told you that before?”

“You do,” Jack said, a smile in his eyes, “nearly every day.”

~~~

Phryne looked terribly small and vulnerable once she was tucked into the massive canopy bed. She gazed at Jack with bleary eyes, the plush covers pulled up to her chin. She sniffled thickly; Jack handed her the handkerchief from his pocket and turned around so she could tend to her nose in relative private.

“I feel very,” Phryne said, sighing, “heavy.”

“You sound like it,” Jack said, sitting down on the edge of the bed and smoothing imaginary wrinkles out of the bedspread. “A nasty, nasty cold indeed; poor you.”

Phryne groaned, dropping her head back against her mountain of pillows. “I do so detest being sick,” she said. “Distract me, Jack.”

“How?” Jack asked, knowing that back at the station they were likely beginning to wonder where he was, but not quite able to bring himself to care.

“Tell me a story,” Phryne said. “One with lots of romance and murder and intrigue.”

Jack thought for a moment. “I’m not sure I know very many good stories,” he said. “I could tell you about a case we just wrapped up instead?”

“I’d like that,” Phryne said, closing her eyes. “Start from the beginning. Who’s died now?”

She drifted off right around the discovery of the second clue, and Jack gave up his story when he heard her begin to snore ever so softly. He went to her bathroom and soaked a flannel in cold water, then draped it over Phryne’s forehead. She stirred and placed her hand over his, then held it there for a moment. 

“Thank you,” she whispered, and it was almost a sigh.

Jack’s heart filled with a fierce, nearly painful affection for her. “You are most welcome,” he murmured.

~~~

Two days later, Jack returned with an extra large takeaway of Phryne’s favorite soup. “How’s the patient, Mr. Butler?” Jack asked when the kindly man opened the door.

“She is in a _famously_ bad mood, sir,” Butler said, the corners of his mouth twitching. “But that is still perhaps better than when you last visited, I think.”

Phryne and her room were indeed a sight to behold. Her bed was strewn with used handkerchiefs and kicked-off blankets. There were several half-finished mugs of tea on her bedside table, and the air smelled strongly of mentholatum and camphor oil. Phryne herself was in the dead center of her mattress, propped up by pillows and surveying her surroundings with all the grave, imperious dignity of a queen. 

“Jack,” she said, beckoning him closer, “I’m going to _die_ in here; please say you’ve come to give me my freedom.”

“Alas, I have not,” Jack said gravely, “but I _do_ have your favorite soup, so perhaps that will be something of a compromise.”

“I can’t _taste_ anything,” Phryne said despairingly, “so it will unfortunately be wasted on me.” She gestured for the container anyway, and Jack handed it over along with a spoon. “Mac came by this morning,” Phryne said between inelegant slurps of soup.

“And what say the good doctor about your prognosis?” Jack asked.

“I’ve a sinus infection,” Phryne said with a degree of gloom usually reserved for pronouncements of death sentences. “It’s going to be _days_ before I’m better again, Jack, and I don’t think I can bear it. My head aches something awful. I couldn’t even read the damned paper this morning; Dot had to read it to me.”

“Is there anything I can do to help?” Jack asked, taking what was quickly becoming his customary seat on the edge of her bed.

“A chat would be lovely,” Phryne said. “Tell me, what’s going on beyond the confines of my sick bed? Any good gossip you can share?”

“Not particularly. But I was thinking,” Jack said, pulling a paperback out of his coat pocket, “that I might read to you? I have the newest Poirot book. We can see how much faster you solve the mystery compared to him.”

“That hardly seems fair,” Phryne said. “Poor old Hercule doesn’t stand a chance next to my fearsome wit and feminine wiles.”

(She was right, as it turned out. She correctly guessed the murderer by page 47.)

After about two hours of reading, Phryne began to fade. “I’m not falling asleep,” she insisted, even as her eyelids drooped. “I’m resting, that’s all.”

“Yes, I’m sure you are,” Jack said, and, without stopping to consider the action’s implications, brushed an errant lock of dark hair from her face. “I’ll come by again later.”

“Wait,” Phryne said, drowsily grabbing Jack’s wrist, “will you stay? For just a few more minutes?” She was not usually so needy, so openly vulnerable, and he felt privileged to see her this way, despite the less-than-ideal circumstances. 

Jack took a moment to pretend to consider it—for propriety's sake—and then nodded. “For just a few more minutes,” he repeated, leaning back against the bed’s headboard.

Phryne drifted off to the low, steady rhythm of Jack’s breathing.

~~~

When Jack returned on the fifth day of Phryne’s convalescence she had been moved into the parlor, and he took the new location as a sign that she was continuing to improve. She was curled up on the chaise lounge, wearing a set of periwinkle silk pajamas and clutching a rather large mug in her hands. “Hello you,” she said, still congested but decidedly cheerier. “I’ve missed you.”

Jack pointedly ignored the way his heart skipped a beat—to be perfectly honest, several—at the easy, effortless way Phryne said _I’ve missed you_. “Yes, well,” Jack said, clearing his throat, “it’s been busy, you know, at the station.”

“Yes, I imagine it has been without my aid to speed things along,” Phryne said mildly. “Did you bring me a treat? You’ve spoiled me terribly, what with your books and soup; I’ve come to expect it now. I will be very cross, I fear, if this time you’ve come empty handed.”

Jack laughed. “I regret that the only thing I’ve brought is my company,” he said.

Phryne sighed, dramatically put upon. “I suppose that will have to suffice,” she said. Her smile was wan, though, and her tone disappointed. She pinched the bridge of her nose between her fingers and grimaced.

“Headache?” Jack asked, frowning.

“The last true, lingering symptom,” Phryne answered. “I’ve been taking steam treatments and bromelain but neither seems to help much with all the,” she gestured vaguely at her face, “ _unpleasantness_ in my head.”

As if to prove her point, she blew her nose heavily to no real avail. “I am sorry,” she said, the weariness in her voice betraying precisely how exhausted she still was. “This can’t be much fun for you, can it?”

Jack joined Phryne on the chaise. “Come here,” he instructed, speaking quickly so as to not change his mind. “Lean back.”

Phryne gave him a questioning look, but apparently found his request intriguing enough to comply. “Some people might say this is a compromising position, Inspector,” Phryne said. “Should I be worried about my _amour propre_?”

Jack snorted. “When has that ever stopped you before, Miss Fisher?” he asked dryly. Carefully, carefully, he swept his fingers across her temples and gently massaged. “Is this alright?”

Phryne moaned, and embarrassed heat crept up Jack’s neck. “It is _divine_ ,” Phryne said. “This is the first time in nearly a week that my poor head hasn’t been throbbing fit to burst.”

They fell into a comfortable, happy silence as Jack continued his ministrations. “You’ve got a bit of a fever still, I think,” Jack said, once a few minutes passed.

Phryne made a sleepy noise of confirmation. “I thought as much,” she murmured. “This is helping, though.”

Jack laughed softly. “With your fever?” he asked.

Phryne opened a single eye. “With my everything else,” she said, and for once there wasn’t even a trace of teasing in her voice. “Thank you for this, Jack.”

“I assure you, Miss Fisher,” Jack said, the low pitch of his voice causing Phryne to shiver in a way that had _nothing_ to do with her temperature, “that the pleasure is entirely mine.”

**Author's Note:**

> The next chapter of my CAOS/MFMM crossover fic is forthcoming! I'm nearly done with the framing and drafting, and then I'll just need to make edits based on cjscullyjanewaygay's beta-ing.


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